


Scripted

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Servamp
Genre: Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, Fights, Kissing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Shakespeare Quotations, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6730159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Victories are vanishingly rare, total ones more so, and Lawless likes to reward himself whenever he attains one of the latter." Lawless wins a fight with Licht and Licht lets his guard down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scripted

Sometimes Lawless wins.

The fights are a certainty. Licht can’t be in the same space as his servamp for more than five minutes without hissing an order to “ _Die_ ” at the other and generally following this up with a sincere attempt to enforce his will; it’s only when he’s playing the piano that Lawless is permitted to exist in his presence uninterrupted, and even then it’s only until the last notes of the last encore have faded and Licht returns to reality from whatever higher plane he temporarily ascended to. Then it’s back to the violence, to the snarl of hatred curving off Licht’s lips and the manic laughter of adrenaline in Lawless’s throat, and even if Lawless usually ends up bruised against the floor sometimes he wins, managing to eke out a victory by dint of some unexpected maneuver or an action too fast for even Licht to anticipate. Victories are vanishingly rare, total ones more so, and Lawless likes to reward himself whenever he attains one of the latter. Once he has the upper hand it’s easy to shove Licht back against the wall, simple to curl a hold into his hair and wrench his head sideways, and then Lawless has the taste of blood on his tongue and there’s nothing that can pull him away until he’s ready to let go.

Licht tastes especially good tonight. Lawless doesn’t know what makes the difference, if it’s from a variance in Licht’s diet or a change in his mood or maybe just the extended length of time since Lawless last had the warm rush of human blood spilling over his tongue. Any thoughts on the subject are fleeting, more distant murmurs than full-blown curiosity, because in the moment Lawless has his teeth caught in the curve of Licht’s throat and the rush of Licht’s blood pouring over his tongue in time with the other’s heartbeat, and all his awareness has gone hazy and muted with the bone-deep satisfaction of that heat. If he shuts his eyes he can lose himself to the rhythm of the action, can narrow his attention to the motion of his throat working as he swallows mouthful after mouthful, and he’s still pressing close against Licht’s skin when he realizes the force of the other’s resisting push has gone slack against his shoulders.

It’s hard to open his mouth. There’s blood on his lips, Lawless can taste the heavy sweet of it when he licks them clean, and even when he pulls back the puncture wounds in Licht’s neck spill a trail of liquid, a heartbeat’s worth of color to trickle down the side of his neck and stain the collar of his shirt. Lawless’s mouth waters, he leans in closer; and then he sees Licht’s face, sees the slack unfocus in the other’s expression, and all his vampiric hunger evaporates into sudden panic.

“Angel-chan,” he says, bright and chirping, in the tone that usually gets him a glare if Licht’s in a good mood or a kick if he’s not. “Licht-tan, the one and only angel-chan, are you falling asleep on me?”

Licht blinks. The motion is good, reassuring for a tension Lawless didn’t realize he was feeling; but it’s too slow, his lashes linger for what feel like seconds over the silver of his eyes before he opens them again and turns his head to fix Lawless with a stare. “Shitty rat,” he says, and that’s good too -- but then his hand at Lawless’s shoulder clutches into a desperate hold instead of a push, and his legs buckle under him, and all the breath leaves Lawless’s lungs as Licht collapses into his arms. Lawless stumbles forward, running hard against the wall with his shoulder as he falls, and then they’re dropping to the ground but he doesn’t feel the impact as his knees slam against the floor. Licht’s gone slack against him, all except for the pressure of his fist on Lawless’s shirt a dead weight in the other’s arms, and Lawless can feel panic cold in his veins undoing the uncommon warmth of Licht’s blood in his body, the excess vitality that is enough to flush his cheeks with the semblance of human heat as Licht’s pale face falls heavy against his shoulder.

“How sound is he asleep,” Lawless says, the cadence of long-since memorized verses falling more easily from the numb spreading through his body than original speech would do. “I must needs wake you, angel-chan.”

Fingers tighten at his shirt. “Shitty rat,” Licht says; and then, with his lashes falling heavy against his cheeks, “Hyde,” and Lawless’s still heart skips with horror at hearing that name from Licht’s lips.

“Come now,” he says, his throat tightening on something that comes out, at least, in the shape of a laugh. “You’re trying to frighten me, Licht-tan. Your acting is better than I thought, I admit. Applause, applause, you’re bringing down the house.” He shakes at Licht’s shoulder, pushing the slack weight of the other’s body in an imitation of independent action. “Speak again, bright angel. The game is up, the curtain has fallen. I just drank a little blood, that’s not enough to kill an angel like you, is it?” Lawless’s hand tightens on Licht’s shoulder; he can feel the fibers in the other’s shirt sliding under his touch, can feel the weight of his hold digging in against the friction of the cloth, but he can’t make himself let go. “You can’t let me kill you as easy as that.”

Licht’s mouth curves up. For a moment Lawless isn’t sure he’s seeing it right; it’s been so long since he last saw Licht smile, and then it was only with the hazy vision that comes with his hedgehog form. But then dark lashes raise, silver eyes drift back into focus, and it _is_ a smile, unquestionably so, Licht’s mouth going soft on the dreamy outline of an expression that speaks more to his oxygen-deprived delirium than even the unresisting weight of his body in Lawless’s arms.

“I might,” Licht says. His hand eases at Lawless’s shirt, his fingers slide up and out; the ghosting weight of his touch at Lawless’s neck is like fire, like a brand to catch electric through the weight of the tags Lawless always wears around his neck. “If it were you.” His eyes go softer, his mouth curves further; Lawless can’t breathe, can’t remember how to go through even the motion of existing with Licht smiling at him like that. Licht’s eyelashes flutter, his mouth falls out of his smile and his lips part on a sigh; his fingers tighten against Lawless’s neck, the weight of his fingerprints blistering like iron on cool flesh.

“You always kill your Eves, right?” Licht hasn’t opened his eyes again; he’s speaking into the dark of his shut eyes, framing the words slow like he has no audience at all. “I wouldn’t mind losing to a demon if it were you.” His mouth curves up again, holding to the weight of his smile for just a moment. “Tragedies can be beautiful too.”

“Angel-chan,” Lawless says, hearing his voice skid against the back of his throat into a crack that would do the greatest actor proud. “I should kill thee with much cherishing,” but he doesn’t think Licht is listening anymore; the other’s head has fallen heavy against his shoulder, even the weight of his fingertips has gone still against the back of Lawless’s neck. Lawless braces Licht with one arm, lifts the other to the smear of red at the other’s throat; when he presses his thumb against the color it clings to his skin instead of to Licht’s, leaves the other’s throat clean and unmarked but for the tiny puncture wounds in the shape of Lawless’s mouth. Licht’s eyelashes are lying heavy at his cheeks, his lips are parted on the rhythm of his breathing; except for the unhealthy pallor under his skin he looks like he’s asleep, like he’s let himself slide into the vulnerability of dreams with the support of Lawless’s shoulder to hold him upright.

“Why art thou yet so fair?” Lawless murmurs, the words so soft as to be more an outline against his lips than sound for Licht to hear in truth. There’s an ache in his chest, a pressure familiar even after centuries of attempting to forget; he can feel it like nostalgia carried on a chord of music, can feel his body thrum with the resonance the same way it did in the concert hall when he first heard the notes of a piano ringing to the weight of Licht’s fingers on the keys. There’s a chill along his spine, the cold weight of centuries-old fear weighting him with the same horror that always comes with too much affection; but Licht is too still, and too beautiful, and the weight of Lawless’s own mental script burdens him with action, curls his fingers into a brace against Licht’s hair and a hold at the back of Licht’s head and ducks him in close to press the weight of his mouth to the other’s lips. Licht’s mouth is soft against his, the give of his lips gentle to the force of Lawless’s; Lawless can feel the weight of pressure like a fist closing around his heart, like an unshakeable burden collecting on his shoulders to bear him down a route to self-destruction. But Licht is heavy in his arms, and soft against his mouth, and when Lawless draws back he can’t find regret anywhere amid the weight crushing against his thoughts.

“Ah, Licht-tan,” Lawless -- Hyde -- says, and presses his forehead against the weight of Licht’s dark hair as he shuts his eyes on reality for a moment. “Thy lips are warm.”


End file.
